Break
by Xanoka
Summary: Toris is in no way hung-up on that ungrateful up-start, Alfred F. Jones. (Is it his fault that guy seems to be everywhere?) He's got more important things to worry about, like relaunching his career in the music industry. He has absolutely no desire to see him again. At all. Unfortunately, an ill-timed cigarette break could change all that... For the prompt: AmeLiet Rock/Popstar AU


There he was on the screen, flashy and loud, as usual, posing and winking at the viewer as sparkles – _sparkles_! – twinkled around him.

It was a teaser for his latest album, and Toris could see more than a few people stopping to look, craning their necks to watch the screen on the side of the building, before the picture faded and turned into an advert for Rolex.

Eduard touched his elbow lightly to get his attention and gestured wordlessly at the waiting limo. With a sigh, he slid inside.

"So it's the interview with _Rolling Stone_ at the Hilton," Eduard said, without preamble as soon as he was seated. "And then you've got the fan signing event at that record store, before the concert. Do you think you're ready?"

Toris smiled thinly. He had been out of the public eye since the accident, and now it was time to get back out there with a vengeance.

"Of course."

Far too soon, they were arriving, being ushered up to the suite like the VIPs they were, and then there was a ridiculously young looking man asking question after question as a photographer snapped away in the background.

It was all picture-perfect.

Toris knew he was looking sharp in the tailored, Oxford-Street-ordered suit that he favoured for interviews, his trend-setting, shoulder length hair catching the light, his crisp white shirt just tight enough to hint at the contours of his chest, the way his fans loved. He had been open, friendly, smiled often, joking with the photographer, making a pantomime of camaraderie with the journalist.

Fake. Fake. Fake.

Of course, it had to come crashing down.

"So, I wanted to ask you about that incident a few months back."

Toris' smile froze on his face, and Eduard stiffened behind him.

He tilted his head inquiringly, the fake smile still there, and asked, as evenly as he could. "Oh? Which incident would that be?"

The interviewer gave him a don't-joke-around look. That was the problem with being pally with the press. They sometimes forgot it was all a show and overstepped the mark. This one was young. It had been a matter of time.

"The car accident. There were rumours…"

But Eduard was already stepping forward and Toris was already standing up.

"This interview it over," his manager said coldly, pushing his glasses further up his nose and scowling like a thundercloud. "We were very clear that my client, Mr Laurinaitis, would _not_ be discussing personal matters. He is here to promote his album and his tour _only_."

Scenting blood, the journalist was starting to rise too, even as Toris headed for the door. All traces of friendliness were gone.

"The public deserve to know! Who was that young man? What _really_ happened? You can't just –"

But Toris had stepped out, into the corridor and didn't hear what he couldn't do. A few minutes later Eduard joined him, still looking murderous and muttering something in his native language. When he met Toris' eye he faltered.

"I'm very sorry about that, sir." Toris winced. Eduard only called him that when he was annoyed or self-flagellating. "We really were very clear."

"It's fine."

"Can I get you anything?" His PA, Yekaterina, surged forward, ample bosom appearing to swell with tender concern. She really was a very devoted employee.

Toris managed a tight smile. "No, thank you, Katia. I think I'd just like a little time alone. Although... Do you know if there's a smoking area?"

It was an open secret that he had been struggling to quit for years.

Katia hesitated, looking disapproving, then her eyes softened and with a visible effort she pursed her lips against her usual complaints ("Cancer!", "Your throat!", "Think of your voice!", "Think of your fans!"). "There's a smoking area on the roof. You can use the fire exit stairs to get up there. I've already checked with the management."

Ah, good old Katia, anticipating his every need, as ever.

Though her easy capitulation probably meant he was looking particularly sad and pathetic today.

Excellent.

Eduard took a break from his silent self-recriminations to add, "The interview finished early, but we still need to get across town. Your next appearance is in an hour. Please don't be too long."

Toris nodded and waved vaguely as he headed in the direction Katia had indicated.

Really, he reflected, he shouldn't be so self-pitying. He was a very wealthy, very popular singer, with an excellent staff and a legion of devoted fans. He was very lucky.

He thought of Feliks and the iron band squeezed his chest again.

Well.

At least he had a new source of inspiration for his song writing now.

A bitter laugh burst out of him at the thought, and it was so unexpected and so strange it was followed by another and another.

He was still huffing mirthlessly as he soldiered up the stairs (only three flights, thank God – they'd had the interview in one of the suites near the top floor) and stepped out onto the roof.

He stopped immediately.

 _Alfred_ was there.

The very last person he expected to see.

His back was turned, but Toris would have recognised that beat-up bomber jacket anywhere. Alfred _adored_ that jacket. It was his pride and joy, having once been his grandfather's, and he used to insist on wearing it all the time, much to his stylist's despair. (Battered old flying jackets did not conform to the cool pop star image, after all.)

Toris had seen neither hide nor hair of it in years, however. It had disappeared from every promo, photoshoot, music video or candid snapshot of the star he had ever come across. The sell-out.

(Not that he had been looking, of course.)

He hadn't seen Alfred in the flesh in all that time either.

Then Alfred turned around and the light glinted off his glasses (similarly replaced by contact lenses in recent years) and wavy blonde hair, and he looked so _surprised_ , eyes wide, his mouth hanging slightly open, cigarette dangling precariously from his lip.

Toris felt a strange, strangling surge of emotions at the sight.

Then the forgotten cigarette dropped some of its ash, burning the back of its owner's hand and endangering the jacket.

"Shit!"

Toris watched as Alfred swore some more and brushed the ash away, frantically patting the jacket to check for burn marks.

"It's all right," he heard his voice say dryly. "I think it survived."

"Looks that way," Alfred agreed, then finally looked up to meet his eye.

It had been so _long_.

He looked a little older. Toris could see a few fine lines at the corner of his lips and eyes that hadn't been there before. His sense of style had moved on too, apart from the jacket. Gone were the grunge t-shirts and the torn jeans, replaced by tight fitting ones and a plain black shirt.

He held himself differently too. Alfred had always been confident, to a fault, but the bravado Toris remembered was gone, and the poise, the quiet readiness for action, for the public was present instead. He looked like the seasoned celebrity he was, had finally become, had hoped to be all those years ago.

At least he had done when Toris first saw him. Now Alfred was looking uncertain, eyeing him silently, probably cataloguing the changes in _him_.

He tried not to sigh. He knew the last few months had not been kind.

"Hello, Alfred," he said at last, more to break the silence than anything.

"Hey, Toris. How are you doing?" Not waiting for a reply, Alfred swallowed and looked down. He took a deep breath, as though steeling himself, then said in a rush: "I know it's probably not my business, but I just wanted to say, I'm sorry about that accident. When I heard… that guy. I know it must have been awful for you."

Toris stared at him dumbfounded. _How_ had he known? And then he remembered their last conversation.

Of course, _Alfred_ would know. He had always been so ready to throw Feliks in his face.

Typically, Alfred hadn't noticed his consternation, instead rubbing the back of his neck and rambling on. Toris made an effort to tune in.

"…and I know you two were close, and all, so yeah. I'm really sorry. I know you probably won't believe me, but I really did mean to call to check up on you, but then you were out of the country, and I was finishing my album and…" he shrugged sheepishly, finally looking up to meet his eye again.

Trying to process, Toris said the first thing that came into his head.

"How could you have called me? You don't have my number."

Toris knew that for a fact, as Alfred had made a great show of deleting it from his phone and ripping up any and all business cards he could find over the course of that blazing row.

Alfred must have remembered as well, since he flushed, even the tips of his ears turning red and he fidgeted, distracting himself with dropping and stamping out his cigarette.

"You know," he said vaguely. "Manager magic. Though!" He perked up, as if something amazing had occurred to him. "Hey, maybe you wouldn't know! I didn't have a manager before, did I? Man, that's so weird! I can't believe you haven't met Mattie! He's so great! I don't know how I got anything done without him." He laughed, a pure and guileless sound.

Alfred was so young and easily pleased. That's what Toris had always thought. It used to annoy him, towards the end.

Then Alfred sobered and sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"It's been a long time."

He sounded sad, and Toris' chest ached.

He had had enough of sadness.

"So, how are things going with you? Your career's doing well. Top of the charts, I heard?"

"Yeah." The smile was back, unapologetically happy and pleased. It was the one from long ago starry eyed conversations about music and the future and breathless giggling and kisses. "I've just finished an album, and I'm working on the next one. I got a tour booked for next year too, in Japan, so I'm super psyched!"

"Wow! That's a lot of work. Be careful. You don't want to – "

"Burn out. Yeah, I know." He had adopted a put-upon air, but he was smiling fondly as he said it. "Geez, you sound just like Mattie. He's my manager. Did I mention that? You know, he always used to remind me of you. Always going on about my health and my image and blah blah blah…"

He trailed off, looking awkward, with good reason.

They had both learned one thing from the break-up, if nothing else. One music artist should never be too involved in the career of a rival. (Though they had never felt like rivals, even now.)

Words like "Sponge!" and "Sabotage!" had bounced around before the end.

"Yes. Well, I'm sure you know what you're doing now," Toris said stiffly. He rummaged in his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter and lit up, determinedly delaying future conversation. His hand was shaking, he noted distantly.

He felt Alfred's eyes on him and knew he had noticed too, so ploughed on in an effort to distract him.

"I saw one of your promo's on the way over here. It was very – _sparkly_."

Alfred cringed, as he knew he would. Mission accomplished.

"Aw, geez. Yeah, I know the one you mean. I thought it was a bit much. But Feli – that's the director – he was all: "Ve, why you worry? You look great! Ve!" The guy's awesome, you know, he's real sweet, but he's a bit… out there, ya know?"

Toris inwardly snorted, but managed to keep a straight face. He knew and had worked with Feliciano Vargas, so he had some sympathy for Alfred. Still.

"Pot and kettle, Alfred."

"Hey!" Alfred looked a little offended. "Come on, Tor. I'm not _that_ bad."

"Maybe not," he conceded, trying to ignore the warming in his chest at the old nickname.

He waited a second, allowed Alfred's metaphorical feathers to settle then added: "Of course, it _still_ looked like an awful throwback to the nineties." His eyes gleamed with amusement. "I think I'm actually a little offended. I swear to God, you and your ilk, trying to rip off the music of my childhood. Not that you could. Crapping on the decade I was born, all of you."

" _You_ were born in the eighties," Alfred grumbled.

Toris shrugged. "The very end of the eighties. I'm a child of the nineties, just as much as you."

Alfred harrumphed, then reached into a pocket and pulled out his own packet and fished out a roll-up. He looked up rather guiltily at Toris' raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, I know I shouldn't," his mouth quirked. "But this is your fault, you know. Yeah!" he added at the look of incredulity. "It was you, the cool older guy, leading me astray!" He winked roguishly and added the tobacco, rolled and lit his cigarette.

"You didn't smoke back then, though. I've never seen you smoke, even in the press. And I'm not that much older than you!" He added automatically.

"There it is. You never used to let that stuff slide. And no, I started after we split. I was… stressed." He fingered his roll-up and Toris felt an unwelcome twinge of guilt. "And I try not to be photographed smoking. Sends out a bad message to the fans, you know."

Ah, yes. Alfred's youthful fanbase.

"So that's why you're up here, then, on the roof." His tone was slightly accusing.

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Actually, I'm staying here. Doing a gig in town then heading out tomorrow. And it's no-smoking in my room, obviously." That explained the casual clothes and image-violating glasses and jacket then. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I had an interview."

It came out too quietly. Damn.

"Shit. Sorry, man."

Toris glanced up sharply. What did he know? "What for?"

Alfred looked at him like it was obvious. "If I'd known, I would have booked somewhere else. Stayed out of your way, you know."

Toris stared back. Did he want to avoid him so badly?

"Why?" he asked, a challenging note creeping into his voice. "It's been good to see you."

Alfred looked momentarily uncertain – he _had_ sounded a little aggressive – then smiled widely.

"Oh, sure. It's been great. He clapped Toris on the arm amiably. "Really great! We should hang out again. I've missed this, dude."

The gesture was so friendly, so affectionate, so _warm_.

Toris teetered. There was no air in his lungs and he chocked, the iron band around his chest squeezing unforgivingly. He had no breath.

Then it all rushed out again. And the convulsive laughter followed, uncontrollable.

He leaned against the side of the wall as he shook with it, the cigarette dropping from slack fingers and reluctant tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes.

He couldn't look at Alfred. He probably thought he was crazy now. He probably _was_ crazy.

Then a hand was on his shoulder and he could feel Alfred crouched next to him – at some point he must have slid to the floor –and he was murmuring softly, kindly.

Somehow this made everything funnier, and more terrible.

"A-Alfred-bloody-Jones," he managed to gasp. Warm blue eyes met his, puzzled. "It's just. It's you. Here. You, of-of all people. Here. And he-he's _dead_."

It wasn't laughter anymore, a detached corner of his brain noted, and it felt as if his whole body was being squeezed and twisted, like a cloth.

He didn't notice the brief look of hurt, but he _did_ feel the warm arms pulling him into an embrace he couldn't and didn't want to resist. His head was on Alfred's shoulder, a hand was rubbing his back and he was whispering soothing nonsense again.

He couldn't move.

But eventually he'd have to. Eduard would come looking for him soon. He was surprised he hadn't already. He had a show, not to mention fans to meet.

It was time to pull it together.

After he didn't know how long he stirred, pushing gently at Alfred's shoulder as he moved to sit up. Alfred let him, steadying him, and smiling. Always smiling.

"Hey there, you OK?" His voice was warm and comforting, wrapping around him like a quilt.

Toris nodded then took a breath, wiping his eyes and forcing himself to speak.

"I'm sorry. I'm all right now."

"You sure, dude? Woah, you must have been really holding it all in!"

Seeing as Eduard and Katia had been saying the same thing for months, this was surprisingly prescient of him. It startled a broken hiccup of laughter out of him. Alfred shot him a look of such comical alarm that he laughed again, more naturally.

Alfred's lip twitched, then he was laughing too, and they were both laughing like maniacs, shoulder to shoulder, sitting on the roof of the Hilton.


End file.
